


they don't know about us

by towfriends



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: AU, Bickering, F/M, Matchmaking, Mutual Pining, bandmates (sort of), business hijinks, tropes galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-28 23:05:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15059783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towfriends/pseuds/towfriends
Summary: But Scott's only focused on her, in his own way, wild brown eyes under lowlight whizzing over her features, and what he says next nearly knocks her off her feet."Can we go out later?"or abandmates! AU





	1. because all of this is not coincidence

**Author's Note:**

> he just had to say bandmates, eh?
> 
> it still feels funny writing rpf, now made stranger by au. it's littered with figure skating references and easter eggs though; for example, i didn't just pull those artist/band names out of thin air. 5 brownie internet points if you can guess where!
> 
> also, if a certain ice dancer is lurking: 1) close this tab get new skates and 2) justin or jc?

It's the worst idea he's ever heard since Javi dared him to go streaking down a hotel hallway.

 

Marina's words ring around his addled mind, an unraveled pinball whizzing past barely awake membrane. Four little words turn into a chant more delirious than a sold-out arena yelling their lyrics as remnants of last night continue to lick his larynx in flames. The statement closes in on the cavernous room, an abnormally sterile box that belongs to a museum, not an entertainment company managing a mess of performers. It blurs into white noise - save for two specks of emerald across, laser-focused and hard as jewels. Usually unguarded when it's early, this morning they pierce through like it's midnight and dark and no one can see them in the confines of an unsupervised recording studio.

 

_Fuck. Don't go there._

 

Instead, he wanders at her artfully messed hair - styled into space buns and newly dyed raven, suspiciously similar to his own, raising questions he's not ready for yet. The green in her eyes continue to light embers, her head turned a proper ninety degrees to Marina. But even perfect trainees blink, and he notices her gaze flit towards him every time her lashes touch the slight, concealed bags under her eyes that he aches to swipe his finger pads over - she really shouldn't work so much.

 

Marina repeats it for what he thinks is her own satisfaction as if it hasn't been drilling his insides out for a good ten minutes now.

 

"We're setting you up." Her accent hits every word like pong in a cup, and this time he tries to force it down with a quick gulp. He thinks he sees Tessa's perfect pink lips, adorned in that strawberry-flavoured gloss that he likes, and he hates that he knows what it is, and his hands take a firm grip on the office chair's metallic handles before it sends him swiveling onto a freshly-painted wall.

 

"It will be good for both your images," Marina continues, and there it is. The one aspect he dislikes about his...job - which has never felt like one - happens to be a backbone the industry thrives on.

 

"Starlight's debuting this year, she could use all the buzz she can get," chirps Marie-France from beside Tessa, and he thinks they couldn't have picked a better name for her. A roaring pride thumps through his chest, threatening to jump and lift her up to the sky, as the universe unravels beneath his feet, dragging him further into the recesses of his heart, reminding him why he's breaking a path everywhere but to her.

 

"And you're too friendly, it's sending the wrong message," Patch contributes, stern and terse, sending his unfilled stomach flip-flopping. He slides a wafer tabloid down the table, a cheap juxtaposition against mahogany varnish. Splotched ink has been a foe for the past two years now, and he tries not to notice how Tessa reaches for Marie-France's hand as his bleary eyes skim through the day's bullshit. Fivestep's _Scott takes five women about town._

 

"It was a bachelorette party, the other guys were dancing too," he sputters, truth dead on arrival at the tip of his tongue. The idea has been spun.

 

"No one else has to know, and this will be good for your careers," the CEO insists as she beckons one of her assistants for the next agenda like she hasn't just flipped his day downside up. "Am I correct, Starlight?"

 

"Of course," Tessa answers, clear and unwavering, hand no longer holding her manager but now clasped together, lips pursed, and eyes crystal as jade. She’s so beautiful.

 

And he's so screwed.

 

-

 

The car ride is unmercifully quiet, save for the radio blasting  _Nonstop Fivestep for Fifteen Minutes!_ and the driver doesn't seem to be keen on changing the station, even though one of Fivestep's members, music's inarguable It Boy, is sleeping soundly in the back, his eyes peacefully closed to the world including herself. She's beginning to like him this way better.

 

Her bated breaths seek relief from trapping lungs, still rattled violently from this morning's meeting. She's never been friends with the sunrise, so imagine her sheer panic when Marie-France had arrived to personally pick her up, magnifying the importance of this appointment, which has been shrouded in mystery since Marina paid an unannounced visit to one of her impromptu ballet practices after scheduled dinner, where the CEO laid out a declaration that hit Tessa in the heart, reducing her stretched legs into jelly on the barre.

 

It scares her that she's fine with this arrangement, which isn't bizarre in the business; it's just gonna be strange to pursue it with the boy who held her hand when she was seven and he was nine and didn't let go when fate had given him a chance to.

 

A part of her aches to go back to those moments in time when it had just been the two of them in their own, singular bubble - and it eventually popped. The exposure that's followed leaves her spine prickling like a wounded nerve.

 

"Are you really okay with this?" Scott murmurs groggily, sending an assault of peppermint gum and cinnamon to her senses. The hazel in his eyes flickers open and shut, as tint from the windows does little to hide its golden specks under harsh sun rays.

 

A "Yeah," escapes her throat, steady as her joined hands, unchanged since they left the boardroom. It  _will_ be good for their careers - his portrayed antics will take a backseat in favour of the band and of her, the new ingenue from Arctic Entertainment. She cannot wait to rip those paper rags to shreds under the safety of bedsheets.

 

He's awake now, body turned fully towards her as the last notes of the Fivestep loop fade out to Scott singing on the speakers,  _just tell me how you really feel baby_ , causing him to stare down plush leather and her to cross and then uncross her legs, before settling for pressed together, feet flat on the floor. Like in church. When they'd been kids.

 

"And no," the admittance takes more effort to spit out, as it places a heavier weight in the pit of her stomach, dread gnawing inside her, thinking about the consequences of their upcoming actions. Goosebumps rise from porcelain flesh, the thought of blurring and burning imaginary lines with him, for him, sends thrill and terror under her skin.

 

Marina found them on top of the podium at Junior Nationals, their last hurrah before her legs had finally bowed out of the ice. They hadn't even touched on compartment syndrome in class, and yet it had been coursing behind corded muscles, pressuring her shins to stay on land, to veer away from frozen waters she'd called home for seven years. The place where he could've remained had he heeded hushed advice as she looked the other way. They'd thought that Marina was a scout, and she was, in a different sense. A figure skating fanatic, she'd heard about the new champions "unfortunate" situation and the way she'd said the offending word nearly broke the dam in Tessa's tear ducts. In anger or shame, she still doesn't know, but what she did know was that they could've made it far. That Scott could still make to the Olympics.

 

"What are you going to do now?" Marina had asked him, taking the words out of her younger, blubbering mouth in accented English.

 

What happened next continues to floor her this day.

 

"I don't care if she can't get the surgery yet, I'm staying with her." A seventeen-year-old boy answered with a scorching bravado far taller than he'd been, and that one sentence had closed around her wrist in a circle pumping through her blood.

 

Her current occupation no longer needs that operation.

 

"You're going to be so big, Tessa Virtue," Scott says, a bashful smile on his lips. "Everyone's gonna love you."

 

Her reflex forms a jarring reply, and she bites the inside of her cheek to prevent her heart from cracking open.

 

_I don't want everyone. At least not as much as I want -_

 

What she answers is, "Thanks." It's immediately not enough. "I wouldn't be here without you."

 

"Likewise." His fingers fiddle on the thin chain adorning his neck, and his mouth remains agape. She wants to hear the words hanging off the cliff of his teeth.

 

But the driver screeches the vehicle in front of their destination before both their guts could mess the carpet.

 

And instead of a gloved doorman, it's Jeff who grabs Scott out of the car.

 

"Sorry, Tess, he's late for practice!" is what she thinks the choreographer said, but her ears are still ringing from the less than thirty words she and Scott shared in the backseat.

 

It's the longest conversation they've had in a while.

 

-

 

With their breakout at the Grammys, it's safe to say that Fivestep is becoming the world's biggest boyband. Powerhouse record label Arctic Entertainment had promoted the quintet well before debut, with video teasers that showcased each member's designated skill, honed to fit the band's sound to a tee. This strategy paid off handsomely, as the release of their initial singles and debut album had been met with hype in their native Canada, and then managed to crossover spectacularly well internationally. As they approach the crucial sophomore year, critics, casual listeners, and their growing fan army known as Fevers, look to their next offering, wondering if they're the real big thing or a new one hit wonder.

 

"That's a hotpot of garbage, we have more than one hit already," Chiddy remarks as Eric closes his laptop to the post on a music blog. They're spent, settled on the squeaky floor, sweat crawling all over their bodies after Jeff had brought in the choreography for their latest song.

 

Andrew's the most comfortable of them all, his entire frame splayed out like a starfish. "Hotpot?"

 

"I'm Chinese and hungry. Leave me alone," Chiddy answers, emphasizing each word with a humorous lilt.

 

"We just ate before this," Javi notes, and Scott laughs to cover his own rumbles. The meeting had taken time off his scheduled breakfast.

 

To him, they're just a bunch of boys handpicked from obscurity and thrust into a blinding spotlight.

 

"So, Scott," Eric says, always in his leader-reader voice, "you gonna tell us about why Patch dragged you out of bed or do we have to wrangle the goss from staff?"

 

They might have to do more than wrangle.

 

"Just detention stuff." It's not a total lie.

 

The technicality shifts his eyes to the mirrored ceiling, unable to look at his friends, brothers in chaos, boys he will go through wires for. Except for this one, apparently, although it is also for their own good. And for  _hers._

 

It's a slippery slope and he wants to keep both feet on the ground.

 

-

 

"You should tilt the taco."

 

"And watch the fillings fall off? You're doing it wrong, Moir."

 

"You've been arguing since we got here when you're supposed to be having a good time," admonishes Marie-France through gritted teeth. Even though she's sitting at a table beside Tessa and Scott, trendy restaurant noise is enough to nearly drown out her exasperation. Clad in black including a beret, it's very covert operator on a mission, and in a way, she is.

 

"We are having a good time," Scott answers with just as much edge, although his whole face states the contrary. Wagging his unfairly fluffy hair like a dog, tiny droplets of water wet his side of the tablecloth, and yes, Tessa reckons being yanked out of the shower after a grueling dance practice for an impromptu dry-run of an arranged first date is a valid reason to be pissed off - it's just that, one would think that free lunch or her can act as consolation. Apparently not.

 

"You know, I should be recording right now," she diffuses, trite and flat, trying to contain the storm brewing beneath her.

 

"And I could be sleeping, or driving around Toronto, or working on these lyrics that won't leave my head." He hesitates at the third option, and she yearns to take that tone and spread it on a sheet.

 

"Can I see it?" she asks, her voice just as small before she can stop herself, and Marie-France's sigh of relief blows a gentle wind towards them. It feels like they're back at the rink, where their old skating coaches had taught them to feed off each other's energy, dark and light, and it had sent her spiraling with glitter ink on a dusty journal lying somewhere in her childhood bedroom.

 

"Sure." A crumpled paper rolls toward her with a little hum.

 

_as long as my heart's beating, i'm never going to change_

_the galaxy is ours to have and hold, don't be afraid_

 

"These are quite melodic..." Her words trail off because the way his back is hunched makes her forget that they're in an open patio where onlookers can take photos of them - which is the intention, as reminded by a slight cough from Marie-France's direction. But when she returns the note, now folded neatly, she lingers on the paper creases, as if they're the callouses that kept her safe after all these years, her touch yearning to tell him that there's nothing wrong with being raw.

 

"Thanks, Kiddo," he mumbles, still looking down at his plate of fallen carnitas, and her heart leaps at the usage of a nickname from the archives.

 

"You're welcome," she replies, returning her hand back to her side of the table before he can comment on it.

 

"Both of you have to be at the interview very soon," Marie-France hisses like she hasn't been heard the first time.

 

"Oh. Right." Scott blinks rapidly, as if he's a robot going through malfunction, and she tries not to decipher how the wide blackness of his eyes goes back to its regular hazel.

 

She doesn't read too much into it when he pays for the bill despite her manager's wallet outstretched, or when he extends his arm for her to hold, or when he leaves the door last, his hand melting against small of her back.

 

This is part of their job now.

 

-

 

Journalists have been the bread and bane of his life since he was a boy. Even as upcoming skaters, Tessa had always been calm to the public, her only tell being how hard her nails dug deep into his palm. He, on the other hand, had cameras flocking to their press conferences, anticipating for his face to react transparently when a question strikes a nerve. His eyebrows, apparently, had betrayed so many hidden emotions one too many times. Being in a boyband poses no difference. There's been a handful of times where he'd accidentally cussed in guestings, and one of those instances even turned into a meme. Or whenever he forgets promoting their social media accounts (he only posts when the guys remind him to), it's followed by a company sermon about the importance of  _authenticity_  online.

 

For this interview, the company's in charge as Marina's being interviewed for a business entertainment magazine, and she's decided to have her business-slash-entertainment, also known as him and the guys and Tessa, with her. The article is about Arctic Entertainment's scouting process, which they've all gone through the ringer for, so he supposes it's not far off to have them in the room to give the reporter more detail.

 

What's bothersome is the purpose and intent of their seating. Marina's lounging in a reading chair, the guys are placed in a four-seater couch, and that leaves him and Tessa in a loveseat that causes him to brush over her skin every few seconds.

 

A far cry from the shirt and jeans from lunch, she's now dressed in a silky red slip, the constellations on her back beckoning him to reach for the stars - or fall into an alloyed abyss.

 

"I chose them all individually."

 

Marina then regales the stories of how they were all discovered. Eric had joined the company nine years ago when he was thirteen and only looking to sell songs. Andrew and Chiddy had the most successful results in different workshops, and Javi had just moved to Canada when he chaperoned a classmate at that year's audition.

 

There's a foreign fondness in her tone when she starts to talk about him and Tessa, and echo across an expanse of ice.

 

"...and I had to take them both because they match."

 

She's buttering the set up.

 

She tells about finding them in Junior Nationals, but not how Tessa's legs had been submerged in ice after the medal ceremony. She recalls offering them to join the agency but doesn't bring up taking him to a corner to ask if he's certain about staying with her. That she's friends with figure skating coaches can help him find a new partner.

 

If Tessa's uneasy as he is, it doesn't show on her made-up face. As usual.

 

Marina then goes into training, which is more understandably condensed. Eric had been in it the longest (seven years) and him the shortest at one by default; he's pretty sure they only needed a fifth guy for the group. With Tessa debuting this year, she'd have been in the program for three. An unending clockwork that left no hour unturned has turned them into part well-oiled machines. Weekly weigh-ins, daily workouts, on top of dance practices or vocal lessons from sunrise to sunset, along with mandated hours for online school. It's not dissimilar to their current structure, except this one rewards tangible merit.

 

"What do you have to say about that guys?" the reporter then turns to them while adjusting her askew eyeglasses.

 

"It's been an absolute blessing to be a part of this company," Eric begins, sitting up straighter. "Yes, our training is arguably more rigorous than others', but the results speak for itself."

 

"Work hard, play hard, am I right?" Andrew chimes in, fiddling with the collar on his shirt, top two buttons already loose.

 

"It taught us how to grow up and fast," Chiddy says, scratching on his ear.

 

"Some more so than others," Javi says with a smirk that perks the writer's ears and sends Scott's hand jerking away from Tessa's armrest and back onto his lap, like a child reprimanded and about to get hit.

 

Instead, Tessa finds his hand and he's back at the kiss and cry or sneaking around dark corridors and hallways when they were hiding from everyone including themselves, breathing each other in like oasis respite. Her fingers trace his knuckles, a milky breeze calming crashing asteroids, building him a galaxy of her own doing.

 

"Scott and I's history is what makes us unique. I don't even remember when we first met, that's how young we were," she sounds breathy and far-away, a lullaby out of a ballerina's music box.

 

To the casual onlooker, their world has been reduced to a tight leather loveseat, leaving no space between. However, the way her ballet flats dangle against his sneakers screams too much, too good to be true, and so he knows better. She's served a volley, and he's expected to hit it before touching the ground. But when he looks at her, he sees light and not lava. It renders his vision to ash. "All I can remember that day was her eyes. Green, gorgeous green."

 

"Dude, your eyes are closed," Chiddy snickers, and when Scott opens them back, he feels as naked as the first day. From the other guys' dumbfounded looks to Marina's slight nod, to the reporter furiously writing on her pad, to Tessa, who's staring at him with parted lips like she's been burnt. Her hand retreats to her lap, lily-white and fisted.

 

"So, what's next for all of your wonderful artists?" the reporter asks, her pen tapping a clockwork rhythm on the page.

 

"Starlight is opening for Fivestep's major world tour."

 

It's a bomb in a statement, and judging from her grin, Marina's aware.

 

The band had been told about it on the flight from Toronto to Los Angeles, and of course, being him, Scott announced it on the world stage after receiving the Best New Artist award. Patch had chalked it up to feeling dazed and gobsmacked, but he should've known from the glint in Marina's eyes that a wave was afoot. It doesn't surprise him, but it still feels like someone's punched his gut. Of all the people in the her arsenal...

 

Tessa.

 

Tour.

 

Trouble.


	2. love is four walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These two need to talk before the tour starts. But first, a catalyst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the kudos and comments! i hope i'm answering your questions along the way.

Based on her reflection in the hall of mirrors, she ponders if her taut chin is enough to hide the giddiness and fear rolling all the way down to her toes.

 

"Let's run through _Romantic_ again." Jeff's sporting a smile that hasn't left his face since practice began like he's been gifted a new toy. "Remember Tess, bend your back and Eric's gonna support you."

 

She follows the instruction without missing a beat, corded muscles forming a textbook arc as Eric kneels down to catch her, genuine concern in his eyes, and it nearly makes her laugh. It provides her relief too, that she's not the only one perplexed about her presence.

 

"And then Andrew's gonna pull her back up, and both of you are gonna twirl around for a little bit," the choreographer continues with a pointed finger. So when Andrew does just that, an apologetic grin already lingers on his closed lips, as if he's saying,  _I'm sorry you're here too, dude._ (He calls everyone dude.)

 

"After that," Jeff's fingers are wagging now, clearly having the time of his life, "T is gonna act cute and boop Chiddy."

 

Andrew lets go mid-spin, leading her to slightly wobble towards Chiddy, who's grinning like the younger brother she's shared contraband chocolates with. Poking his nose affectionately, this routine doesn't seem too bad. Jeff (Marina) had the idea to put her in one of Fivestep's tour numbers after a picture of her and Scott's taco dry-run made its way online.

 

"Javi, you're just gonna help Tessa when she splits down under you."

 

Javi, youngest and wide-eyed, takes his role seriously, and she feels most secure in his hold. It lands her smack dab in front of Scott, his gaze immediately capturing a firmer grip on her skin more than the others did with their hands. His eyes are stoking coals all over her body, burning the light sheen off her flesh. Jeff walks in their direction while rubbing his palms together, and a slight chill stops her toes from wiggling under her sneakers. She wonders if he  _knows._

 

"As for you two, I want some of that ice skating on land."

 

Last time they'd danced in broad daylight, they'd ended up with their hands tied.

 

But when he reaches out for her and she follows on reflex, a string beneath her joints cuts loose from a tightened bound. The song reaches its sweeping bridge, sharp piano keys cutting through electronic beats, an instrumental seeking out sleeping parts of her heart from a cemented mask. He steps forward and she steps back, a familiar rhythm settling between them, reminiscent of when they had blades under their feet and the blossoming of possibilities flushing their cheeks pink. There's little of that now, as a mere feather touch on her top bun is enough reason to clutch onto the baseball sleeves hugging his arms as he leads them to a twist. She will never tell anyone, let alone him, but sharing the same colour gives her a strange sense of gratitude like she'll always have a piece of them somehow. His fingers slide over the shell of her ear as they swing in unison, taking her to secret moments in crowded rooms, quiet whispers in secluded corners, and before all that, discreet escapes from competition banquets. Where promises had been made, both fulfilled and broken, the most important one still standing to this day: _no matter what_. Three words that keep them afloat despite separated rafts and unspoken undertones. As their shoes squeak from shuffling back and forth, he pulls her in close, and her lips skid dangerously over the triad of freckles skirting the edge of his collar. It coaxes a low growl out of him, barely audible from an unwilling mouth, but there's no mistaking the vibrations on his throat bobbing up and down.

 

The final lyric belts out,  _I just wanna put my hands on you_ , and it's a mockery really, as he turns her around and their intertwined fingers meet at her middle, pressing onto the silver ball beneath white cotton. It takes all of her willpower not to release the same guttural noise he did.

 

"Well, that was...something," Jeff's childish smile tears into a satisfied smirk, his beady black eyes inspecting them from head to foot. Scott breaks away in an instant, burying his hands in deep pockets, digging a holeless pit that drags his grey sweatpants downward, showing off the steep valley carving his hips. Tessa wraps her own hands around her arms, a faint hint of smoke seeping past burning pores, evaporating into thin air, also snatching the spell that's cast over. A sweeping moment now locked as a memory, where silence builds no wedges and they still taste gold aside from sweat. Shifting her gaze to the opposite side of the room, she meets the other guys' inquiring stares, surely asking questions she'll never have the answer to. It's a prickling feeling, being exposed, and the exit sign above the door crackles maniacally, blood behind neon taunting a way out. Jeff's closing briefing flows from one ear to another, although she catches "next morning again," and masculine groans mute the exasperated sigh breathed through her nose, still red from tossing restlessly across her sheets, thread count doing nothing to settle fluttering butterflies.

 

Not Scott's though. Usually animated, even from afar, his stillness is unnerving, a shattering void amidst the hugs and pats the others have given her. Instead, he extends a handshake, stiff and rigid contrasting the flowing motions they've just shared for far too many people to see. It doesn't stop static from shocking their palms.

 

When Marie-France whisks her away to recording, it's a welcome reprieve, and she tries not to turn back when his voice booms all of a sudden, laughter and chatter with his boys, a looming force saying that no, they're not there, along with a sliver of they could be. Marie thankfully doesn't say anything beyond remaining schedules, but it does make her conscious if distress is evident on her face, despite feeling relaxed muscles and slackened jaw. She doesn't pay attention to the  _tap tap tap_ bouncing around the hallway until she's face to face with Scott, catching his breath dramatically and holding onto her manager's clipboard, its owner looking at him motherly yet stern, like he's wasting precious time. Which he is. (And has.)

 

But Scott's only focused on her, in his own way, wild brown eyes under lowlight whizzing over her features, and what he says next nearly knocks her off her feet.

 

"Can we go out later?"

 

-

 

The custom limousine has never felt more cramped under the investigative gazes of four friends unyielding. Despite scented air conditioning, beads of sweat find their way to Scott's forehead, and he keeps padding it with a handkerchief, ridding the foundation with it.

 

"Um - what the fuck was that?" Eric snaps the way Eric does, even yet crisp, like the hiss of newly-opened sparkling water, bubbles bursting at the cap, and the other three start steamrolling their own rants. And he understands - they'd been unfortunate spectators to the fallout before, and they're all currently teetering on delicate edges. If only they knew the whole truth. But Patch is in the front seat, oblivious or loath to participate. Scott doesn't care, he's just thankful he hasn't blabbed to Marina about practice, even though Jeff must surely report. Because  _that_ isn't the promotional photoshoot for their tour,  _that_ is the pent-up mess that was this morning, where he let his impulse get the worst of him and nearly spilled it on the floor.

 

When Jeff had put them on blast, an angry urge to hurl the poor choreographer up the paneled mirrors placed itself in his head, overreaching and hyperbolic but it did represent the alarms ringing through his ears, presenting the open window without comment. But then Tessa looks at him, a doe in the woods, and he dips hand first in a forest of chaos emeralds, bass and trebles soothing the warning bells inside him. He's never let go - in fact, he's held on to the point of recklessness - and he's not gonna leave her hanging on the job. And when she takes him on, in comes the mantra raised by their families to Paul and Suz from Kitchener-Waterloo, whom he misses dearly.  _Tessa's two years younger than you, protect her._ He likes to think he's upheld that promise, although these days he also believes he's more of a nuisance to take any responsibility. So he doesn't want to be accountable when his fingers touch her top bun, strawberry permeating his senses, nor does he want to take credit for their joined hands splaying over the ring beneath her thin shirt, an ancient act of rebellion against her parents, Marina, and...him, to be honest. Feeling it roll the same way her eyes do, languid and backward, sends a charge  _down_ _down down_ that he has to break away and repent at the ceiling.

 

"Dude," Andrew breaks him out of the trance, uncharacteristically serious, "we just hope you know what you're doing. Both of you."

 

 _Me too, Poje, me too,_ Scott thinks as he knocks on Tessa's apartment door, just a floor below his. Another Arctic Entertainment brainchild - it's easier if all artists live in one building to keep camaraderie and easier logistics (the company dietitian must be thankful). He sighs, toying with the hem of his shirt, still the same one from the shoot. So many thoughts buzzing, not one of them suggesting where to take her.

 

"Marie, thank goodness, I don't know what to wear - hi!" The greeting catches at her throat, and he gulps.

 

"That - that's actually great," he exclaims, just focused on her widened eyes.

 

"I'm in a towel."

 

_Fuck._

 

"Yeah - yeah, uh, I asked you out 'cause I was being weird earlier, and look at me now. Ha."

 

But she does look great. Barefaced and pale as moonlight emerging, recalling icy mornings where he's not allowed to talk until eleven A.M. Wet hair splayed on her collarbone, black contrast against the fluffy white cloth circling her. He remembers Marie-France's face when he practically vomited his question out, syllabic guts scattered over tiles. Marie's look is the informal code of conduct imparted by his brothers and her siblings since boyhood.  _Don't be fucking weird._ He's not doing a very good job right now, but

 

"It's okay," she says, softly now. "Do you want to come in?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see you in the next chapter, any feedback is appreciated!


End file.
